Morabi

Morabi flattened themself against a bamboo-lined wall, the scent of icing from the cake slice on their head a nauseating perfume in the frigid air. The target was approaching, just as the Panda Council’s scout had described. But the figure wasn’t a cloaked assassin or a shadowy operative; it was a baker, carrying a tray and looking utterly exhausted by the endless streets of The Great Panda City. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second, and Morabi saw not malice, but the same deep weariness they felt behind their own mask. The orders were clear: confirm the target, mark them for collection. Their hand rested on the signal flare, cold and heavy. The baker passed, oblivious. The flare remained untouched.